’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter.
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